Aftermath
by Meyberry
Summary: "His body had escaped, but his mind hadn't. He was still there among those people" Remy's thoughts after escaping Three Mile Island. Takes place right before Wolverine Origins. Oneshot.


Disclaimer- I do not own X-men.

* * *

**When **he had finally escaped three-mile island he was too exhausted to be overjoyed.

For the first time in a long time he slept without nightmares plaguing him, without the fear that when he woke up he would be strapped down to a surgeon's table having his body poked and prodded at.

_Doctors always have cold hands._

Hands that were supposed to be caring and gentle, were instead cruel and rough.

The Doctors could be called _other _things as well:

Sadists.

Enemies.

Monsters.

Murderers.

He lost count of how many mutants didn't come back to their cells after a round of "testing".

No, _he corrects himself_, how many _people _didn't come back to their cells. They weren't just mutants, they were _people_. Ones that cried in the middle of the night, ones that begged for mercy, some that even held _hope_. They were people and he would never let himself forget them, he couldn't let his mind be de-sensitized by that place.

_Sometimes_, they screamed so loud you could hear them from the part of the facility that he was in.

_Sometimes _they were mere children.

_And most of the time_, they never stood a chance.

* * *

**He **slept for three days.

When he woke up he wasn't even hungry(he was used to going days without food), and when he finally ate and looked in the mirror he didn't recognize himself.

Rail thin, wild hair, pale skin.

This wasn't him.

He told himself that.

_First in a whisper_:

"This isn't me."

_Then in a shout:_

"This isn't me!"

His fist flew into the mirror, breaking it into shards, and he felt a just little bit better; a little bit safer from himself.

What had they done to him?

He felt angry, depressed, polluted by them.

Somehow when he imagined his freedom he imagined everything would be better.

_What many people neglect to realize is that memories follow you._

And these memories never allowed him a moment of peace.

His body had escaped, but his mind hadn't. He was still there among those people, and now they were crying for help, asking him:

_"Why didn't you save us?"_

Guilt wasn't something he was familiar with. He had been taught as a child that in order to pull off a heist you needed to remove all traces of the pesky emotion.

But now it was clawing at him.

_For a week _he floated in-and-out of reality.

_For a week _he felt as if it had all been for nothing.

_After a week_, he was sick of pitying himself and decided to do something about it.

* * *

**When** he showered, his hair came out in chunks that had been clumped together by oil, dirt, and blood. He took the time to scrub away every sign of his imprisonment and when the last bit of the filth was sucked down the drain he felt pounds lighter.

A new start.

After drying himself and tending to his wounds he carefully adjusted his white shirt to make sure it wasn't showing any of his bandages. Yards of sterile gauze that wrapped around his body to hide what would soon be spider-webs of scars all over his arms and part of his hands. He shrugged on a trench coat for good measure, part of him hoping it would better hide his injuries, and the other part of him hoping it would make it feel like his old self.

That night he drank and played cards.

_Two things _he did extremely well.

_Two things _that helped him forget.

But not to move on.

Never to move on...

* * *

**He** saw that place when he slept, even when he was awake; it was always there. He saw the cramped cells, the dying people, and felt the cold, sterile hands of the doctors.

If he tried hard enough maybe he could be like his old self, maybe...

**The old **Remy LeBeau didn't have to try to be careless, he just was. He didn't have the same burdens, and he _enjoyed _drinking and playing cards.

**The new **Remy however, has to work to be careless, to get lost in the insanity of his actions. He has many burdens that he drinks to get away from, and he plays cards to trick his mind into believing that he's back to normal.

Everyone has their own problems.

_Some people just have more than others._

And Remy... Gambit... Le Diable Blanc... has lost count.

* * *

A/N - I was just playing around with some words, and got this. I really enjoy writing things like it, because I just let my mind wander. I hope you enjoyed it.


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